


Ham and Cheese

by thinlizzy2



Category: Brooklyn Nine-Nine (TV)
Genre: Backstory, Canon Gay Relationship, Food, M/M, Marriage, References to Homophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-29
Updated: 2015-08-29
Packaged: 2018-04-13 14:24:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 2,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4525383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thinlizzy2/pseuds/thinlizzy2
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times Kevin Cozner ate a croque-monsieur, or the history of Kevin and his great loves told in fancy sandwiches.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Bread

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Missy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Missy/gifts).



At age fifteen, Kevin Cozner treated his excursions to the kitchen with the same secrecy that other teenage boys probably employed when sneaking out to see their girlfriends. Although, he reflected, his own father would be quite happy to learn that young Kevin was getting hand jobs from Lucy Johnson or Sandy Blevins or any of the other pretty, smiling girls from church or school that did nothing for him. It would put his mind at ease and quiet his nagging concerns that his bookish boy, fascinated by art and history and Europe and cookery, just wasn't quite right. 

The Cozner's kitchen wasn't up for most challenges, and even if Kevin had had the money to buy the ingredients for coq au vin or duck a l'orange he still wouldn't have any idea where to buy some of the recommended herbs and spices. Pawnee, Indiana wasn't exactly known for being a hub of the culinary world, after all. As it was, the bechamel he had secretly prepared and stashed away in the tupperware at the back of the freezer was probably lacking in many ways. But he had it, along with ham, cheese and bread, and with no frame of reference to allow for disappointment he should still be able to pretend his croque-monsieur was the real thing. 

He longed for wine, a candle, something to add savor to the occasion. But in their absence, he was still transported; sitting at his kitchen table in the dark, he relished the luscious combination of cheese, salt and hope. There was, he desperately wanted to believe, a place across the ocean where people ate such delicacies at every meal. They spoke to each other in French, with little trills and flourishes tripping off their tongues as if such things could be easily spared. There were baguettes and escargot and priceless works of art and men who touched each other easily, without fear of what Kevin knew to be true about himself. 

Even if he wasn't ready to put it into words yet. 

Years into the future, he will share this story with a strong, sophisticated man with dark eyes and a kind heart. He will laugh self-deprecatingly at his younger self who sat in the dark and idealized a sandwich; he will not be laughed at in return. And if he knew that, then it would ease the heaviness on his heart as he scoured the pan, careful to put it back exactly where it was and leave no trace of his nocturnal indulgence. 

But for now, all he could do was slink back to his bed, with the centerfolds from _Playboys_ and _Penthouses_ stuck above the headboard like chain mail to deflect the blows of his father's interrogations. He slid the other half of the sandwich, triple-wrapped in plastic bags to prevent the scent leaking out, into the bottom of his school bag. He would eat it tomorrow, locked in a stall in the boy's restroom because he couldn't deal with the whispers and giggles that filled the cafeteria whenever he walked in anymore. 

It would be delicious and a comfort; he knew that. But despite that, he wished it wasn't for him alone. 

His cravings weren't for the food, not really. He was starving for someone to share it with.


	2. Ham

Columbia was like a dream. 

Kevin was no one from nowhere here, and he liked it that way. Kids from the sticks got their rough edges sanded down pretty quickly in New York City and Kevin was delighted with the results. He learned that 'latte' didn't rhyme with 'ate', that it was pronounced 'House-ton' not 'Hyews-ton' and that he wasn't meant to say the 't' in 'pinot'. He was on a scholarship and didn't have a lot of money but he haunted the second hand shops, hungrily searching for the physical realities of words he had only read before like damask and cashmere. He got a job, part-time, waiting tables at a restaurant where arch gay boys delivered food and wine to cool-eyed slightly older men who left their numbers written on the backs of the checks. And after one glorious afternoon at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, high on where he was living and who he thought he was now, Kevin pulled the one that he'd saved out of his pocket and actually dialed the number. 

The dark-haired man with the stubbly beard and the charming crows-feet that had captivated Kevin's attention at the restaurant said that his name was Stewart. Kevin didn't know whether or not to believe him. There was a little pause right before he introduced himself that made Kevin suspect that it might not be true; the obvious band of untanned skin on his left ring finger indicated the need for an alibi. But who would make up a name like Stewart? 

Maybe-Stewart took Kevin to a blindingly expensive place. There was a lot of chrome everywhere, a lot of pointy and vaguely menacing statues that didn't look like anything in particular. Possible-Stewart ordered for them both, a relief because Kevin couldn't make heads or tails of the menu with its foams and gels and agar-agar. What arrived looked nothing like food; there were cubes and spheres and what looked like industrial solvents smeared along the plate. Kevin did his best to nibble at the bits, welcoming even this as a distraction from what had become Perhaps-Stewart's endless droning about his job, lake house and collection of cars. But when he bit down on something that both crunched and squished, he had to give up and push the plate away. 

"A bit out of your league?" Probably-Not-Stewart was looking at Kevin sympathetically. 

"A little." Kevin admitted. _But I'm interested in food,_ he wanted to add. _I like food. Just not this._

But then Who-The-Fuck-Cares-If-He's-Named-Stewart squeezed his knee under the table. "Don't worry honey," he said silkily, his hand sliding upward. "I'll take care of you. I'll make sure you get what you really want." 

There was no need to bother with excuses. Kevin merely stood up and left. 

He walked home in a rage. He was tired and cold by the time he made it to his door, still hungry despite having consumed at least two hundred dollars worth of absolute crud. Without even thinking, he pulled out cheese, ham, bread and white sauce, following the familiar recipe that he now knew so well. 

The croque-monsieur was perfect - hot soothing comfort food that filled his belly and calmed his anger. He finished every last bite, even scraping the plate with his finger for errant crumbs. 

Fuck the world and all its so-called Stewarts. His league suited him just fine.


	3. Cheese

They told him he was getting tenure right before the end of the academic year, a little budget saving trick he's heard other new professors talk about. This way, they wouldn't have to start giving him a salary and benefits until September. Kevin couldn't care less; he was delighted with the plan. It gave him a few months to fulfill a lifelong dream. 

Paris was everything that he'd hoped it would be and more. He played the typical tourist for a couple of days, visited the Eiffel Tower, Versailles, the Louvre. Then he began following his own agenda, which was even more delightful. He took long walks along the Seine, where he saw young lovers in every combination holding hands and taking joy in each other. He spent glorious hours in tiny used book stores and antique shops, filling his suitcases with the remnants of other lives lived in the beautiful city he'd aspired to for so long. He trekked through an enormous cemetery to find the grave of Oscar Wilde. The marker was huge and white, oddly modern despite being surrounded on all sides by more typical gravestones. The tradition was to leave a lipstick kiss on the stone but Kevin wasn't the sort to be putting on lipstick, not even for such an occasion. So he brought his own idea of an offering: a single green carnation. 

He was not a religious man, but he bowed his head to give thanks. Not to God, but to Wilde himself. _Thank you for having existed,_ he thought. _Thank you for leaving your work behind, even when it was dangerous to do so, so that scared young men would be able to read it and know that they were not alone in history. Thank you for proving that wit and intelligence are worthy weapons in our fight. And thank you for lying here, in this place, so that I could dream of making this journey to you._

He laid the flower on the stone, fluffing its petals out delicately, before rejoining the living. 

He saved one special treat for his last day there. On that quiet Wednesday evening, he asked the concierge at his hotel for a recommendation and then walked for nearly an hour through the cobbled streets to get there. The tiny bistro was crowded so he waited another hour for a little corner table. His order was simple: a carafe of rough red wine, a bowl of onion soup, and a croque-monsieur. 

He had been worried that eating this, in France, wouldn't live up to his expectations. He knew it was foolish but for some reason this remained as important to him now as it had been a decade ago. A croque-monsieur in Paris needed to be perfect. 

And, miraculously, it was. The cheese, meat, sauce and bread, all of which should have been familiar and old-hat by now, came to life again. He knew who he was, and he liked himself. He had a good job, with colleagues and friends who respected him - as he was - waiting for him back at home. He had enough money to go anywhere he wanted, and so he was here, in France, eating a croque-monsieur. 

He could imagine no greater happiness.


	4. Sauce

No greater happiness, that was, until he had Raymond Holt to split his sandwiches with. 

By the time they met, Kevin had grown accustomed to living alone. At first, it hadn't been so bad. He had been able to decorate his home however he liked, take long holidays to obscure places that interested him and him alone and waste perfectly lovely summer days on his computer crafting meticulous translations of ancient Greek texts that only a few other equally lonely academics would read. He got a dog, a little corgi he named Cheddars, who added a bit of life to his quiet house. If it wasn't exactly bliss then at least it was contentment. And that was enough. 

Or at least it had been before he met Ray. Long after he'd stopped looking, there he was. A good, decent handsome man who made Kevin laugh, who shared with him and loved him and accepted his love in return. There were days when Kevin still couldn't believe it was really happening. 

He fondly remembered the moment when he'd realized this was forever. 

They'd taken an anniversary trip to France – Kevin's choice, of course – and it had been a delight. Kevin had shown Ray all his favorite spots from Paris and then they'd rented a car and driven all through the French countryside. Ray knew so much, about architecture, about history, about art. Even more delightfully, he'd been willing to learn from Kevin, so unlike other men who refused to admit there were things they didn't already know. The trip had been almost perfect, save for one minor flaw. 

In the acknowledged food capital of the world, Ray Holt had almost no interest in eating. 

He'd never been a gourmet, and that was fine, but the way that he barely even noticed the delicious meals that Kevin ordered for them both was heartbreaking. To Kevin, appreciating a perfectly crafted dish was akin to doing the same with a symphony. It drove him mad that Ray was able to do one but not the other. 

He made it into a challenge. Every time they stopped for a meal, he made sure it was a work of art. He ordered fine meats and fishes with elaborately reduced sauces, salads with ingredients most people from Pawnee wouldn't have been able to pronounce, desserts so rich that he had to close his eyes while eating them. And every time, Ray's response was the same. 

"That was nice. Shall we go?" 

It wasn't enough to ruin their holiday, of course. They still had a lovely time. So the night before they were due to go home, Kevin finally admitted failure. He wasn't going to make a foodie out of Ray, and he would simply need to accept that. And after two weeks of deliberately intricate meals, it was wonderful to just throw in the towel and pick a nondescript little sidewalk café for their last dinner in France. Ready for something simple and always a sucker for nostalgia, Kevin ordered both of them croque-monsieurs. 

Ray gave the sandwich as little consideration as he had every other meal, picking it up and taking a nonchalant bite. Kevin was about to tuck into his own sandwich, when he heard a sound from Ray that he'd long given up hope of. 

"Mmmm." 

Kevin stared at him. Ray's eyes were closed in pleasure and he had a little half smile on his face. He chewed slowly, _savoring_ the taste, and his smile spread as he swallowed. 

It was ridiculous, but Kevin's heart was in his throat. He tried to sound casual as he made his inquiry. "Is it good?" 

Ray nodded. "Very." He took a bigger bite. 

And somehow, Kevin knew it was time to ask the question that he'd been wanting to ask for the entire trip. He didn't know what had been holding him back, but he knew that the obstacle was gone now. 

"Raymond? How would you feel about marrying me?"


	5. Monsieur

Kevin awoke with the vague sense of expectation that one got when they knew a day was meant to be special but could not recall why. He yawned, stretched, rubbed at his eyes, and then he remembered. 

It was their anniversary today. 

He still marveled at that. He, the rather ridiculously named Kevin Cozner, the skinny nerdy gay kid from Pawnee, Indiana, got to have a wedding anniversary. On which he got to celebrate being married to the most incredible man he had ever known. 

Sometimes, none of it even felt real.

Which was an ironic thing to think, at the moment when he rolled over and found Ray gone. 

He tried not to be too disappointed. His husband was a creature of habit, and his mornings were generally full. They would go out for dinner tonight, Kevin knew, and there would be gifts and good wine and happiness, so there was no point in getting worked up over a missed breakfast that they could have shared. 

He was just about to get up and get on with his day when the bedroom door swung open. There stood Ray, looking oddly nervous, carrying a tray covered with a napkin. 

"I thought you went out." Kevin began to rise from the bed to give Ray a kiss, but his husband gently pushed him back onto the mattress and then laid the tray across his lap. 

Kevin raised his eyebrows. "Breakfast in bed?" He had no objection to that, but Ray was usually a stickler about crumbs. 

Ray nodded. "It's a special occasion." He pulled the napkin back, and Kevin nearly laughed out loud. 

It was a croque-monsieur, because of course it was. It was a croque-monsieur, prepared by his brave and brilliant husband in the beautiful home that they shared in Brooklyn, to celebrate their wedding anniversary. Kevin smiled, breathing the familiar and delicious aroma. "It smells authentic. Where did you get it?" 

"I made it." Ray replied, and Kevin wouldn't have been any more surprised if Ray had said that he had flown to France to get take-out. "I thought it might bring back fond memories." 

"Really?" It did, of course, but this sentimentality was unlike Ray. 

"I've been reading. I can show you some interesting articles, but first..." Ray gestured at the tray. "Please." 

"Well... thank you." Kevin lifted up the sandwich and took his first bite. 

"Is it all right?" Ray was worried, and that tugged on Kevin's heartstrings just as much as the act of making the sandwich itself had done. 

He looked at his husband and answered with total and utter honesty. "Absolute perfection."

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Missy, for M/M Rares 2015. I used your prompt about their time in France, and went from there. It has less Holt than I originally planned (Kevin was unexpectedly fascinating to me) but I hope you liked it anyway!


End file.
